


In the Bottom of a Glass

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcoholic Dean Winchester, Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Anxiety, Anxious Castiel (Supernatural), Because Apparently I Can't Write Anything Lighthearted, Because I'm a Sore Loser About that Unbuttoning Scene from Season 9, Drunken Shenanigans, Drunkenness, First Meetings, Humor, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Light Angst, M/M, References to Canon, Sexual Humor, Social Anxiety, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-23 02:00:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16609742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: “What?” Castiel scoffs. “I don’t even know your name.”“Dean. Blazer.”Castiel tells himself he does it to shut this guy, Dean, up, but if he’s being honest, the guy’s deep voice, like brand new tires against weather-beaten asphalt, is a big motivator. He’s also handsome for a bar regular. When Castiel pictures a drunk, he sees a guy three times Dean’s size in a pinched biker’s jacket with long, ponytailed gray hair. “You happy?” he grunts. “And it’s Castiel, by the way.”“Pleasure, Cas. Unbutton it.”“You have to be joking.”





	In the Bottom of a Glass

**Author's Note:**

> Completely unrelated, but rest in peace Stan Lee. I hope God sent his best superhero to whisk your soul off its feet to bring you to Heaven. <3

It’s completely disingenuous to who he is. Castiel Novak hasn’t been inside a bar since men wore bandanas around their necks unironically. He doesn’t even own a bottle of Vodka. The last time he remembers having a drink was for an unpaid, work-related gathering back in ’05. Not only was he almost thirty in a dead-end job and watching another man seven years his junior receive a promotion, _he was almost thirty in a dead-end job and watching another man seven years his junior receive a promotion and having a silent panic attack_.

Dean Winchester hasn’t been caught dead (or, rather, passed out) in a bar in ages. However, contrary to Castiel, Dean has a problem with alcohol. At least that’s what his brother says. When he looks around the local bar, ice hitting his upraised glass of whiskey like a wind chime calling him home, all he sees is smiling faces. If anything, he’s happy and he’s social—two things that’ve taken him years to do after his daughter’s death.

Dean only took a break from the local bar because his father’s been scheduling him twelve hours at work. By the time he gets out, he’s too stiff to do anything but pass out on his futon. Dean thinks this is intentional.

Then again, he also believes everything in his life up to this point has been cruelly intentional.

Even if he’s another wrench in Dean’s miserable sober life, Castiel is easy on his drunken eyes. He’s got a warm air to him, despite his cool blue eyes. He’s a little tense. His suit is wrinkled where his shoulders ride up. His jaw is too pronounced and his stubble too closely shaven.

“What gives?”

It takes a moment for Castiel to realize the man two seats over is not complaining about the sudden shift from Crüe to Jovi, nor the shortage of alcohol in his glass. “I-I’m sorry?”

“I said what gives?” he repeats. “This is Disneyland for alcoholics. You should be happier.”

“Well sorry for not feeling very up with the up,” Castiel rejoins. There’s a tinge of truth spiked in that remark. “I’m sorry. I don’t...’ He sighs. “I’m just not good with people.”

“Well you’ve come to the right place.”

“What?”

Dean laughs. Castiel takes notice of the gleam in his emerald eyes and concludes the bourbon must be getting to him. “None of us are good with people. That’s why we come here.”

“I have bad social anxiety,” Castiel blurts. “Hell, I can’t even urinate next to someone. I just seize up and… that’s why I’m drinking slow. And keeping myself relaxed.”

“Bang up job at that, pal,” Dean says. “You’re halfway into that Bourbon and white-knuckling the table.”

Castiel blanches even more releasing his death grip on the ledge of the bar top.

“Why are you here?”

“I got annoyed with my cat. And I have to give a toast at my brother’s wedding in a week.” He tips back the rest of his Bourbon, slow and careful, like he said, “and my house doesn’t have copious amounts of alcohol.”

Dean tilts his head back. “Tell you what, take off your blazer.”

“What?” Castiel scoffs. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Dean. Blazer.”

Castiel tells himself he does it to shut this guy, Dean, up, but if he’s being honest, the guy’s deep voice, like brand new tires against weather-beaten asphalt, is a big motivator. He’s also handsome for a bar regular. When Castiel pictures a drunk, he sees a guy three times Dean’s size in a pinched biker’s jacket with long, ponytailed gray hair. “You happy?” he grunts. “And it’s Castiel, by the way.”

“Pleasure, Cas. Unbutton it.”

“You have to be joking.”

“Sure, and I get my lovin’ on the run.”

Castiel rolls his eyes, but obliges. He glances around briefly, wondering if anyone’s watching. It’s a habit for someone with chronic social anxiety. Even if he just breathes, he’s wondering if he’s breathing too hard or too soft, too slow or too fast. He’s always analyzing and comparing. Some days it’s so bad, he feels more like a computer, trying to blend in with humanity.

To his relief—and disdain, because he really should’ve known—everyone’s too invested in their beers and their karaoke. “We’ve Got Tonight” seems to be the choice tune of the night, judging by everyone’s rowdy approval of a guy named Bobby on stage, who even kind of resembles Kenny Rogers, even though his rendition sucks the life out of the original song.

Dean knows every regular by name. To name a few: Bobby’s ex-wife, who doubles as the owner, Ellen, and his new girlfriend, Jody. Jody’s friend Donna and her boyfriend Doug, who has a tough road ahead of him since her previous abusive boyfriend was also named Doug. Jesse and Cesar make an occasional appearance, but Dean remembers them each time they walk in. It’s kind of hard to forget the imprint of someone’s wedding band etched into your cheek. And despite the fact that they mugged Dean once in the alley alongside the bar, Walt and Roy are pretty chill dudes after a few drinks.

This is his family now.

This is home.

“Ah, ah, just a little bit!”

“What else does _unbutton_ mean?!”

“Okay, I’ll admit, that was mostly for my own enjoyment.” Dean smirks before tracing his tongue over his lips. “Oh and loosen the tie.”

“Anything else you wanna catalog in your mental files?” Castiel retorts as he starts to button back up with still slightly trembling hands. But it’s hard to take him seriously when he’s blushing. “Can you tell me what this is really about?”

“Gladly.” With that, Dean unleashes an ear-curdling whistle.

Castiel jumps. And by the looks of it, he’s the only person doing so. No one else seems phased by Dean’s stunt, and if they are, they’re too drunk to react quickly enough.

“Guys, this is Cas. Cas, the guys.”

The Guys nod amicably. Castiel isn’t sure who he’s referring to when he says “The Guys”, when there’s at least twenty people nodding their heads—some who are women, and don’t let that fact go unnoticed.

Jody clears her throat.

“And _gals,”_ Dean adds. “Anyway, Cas here is the Chief of Child and Adolescent Psychiatry at Lawrence Hope Hospital. He just came here to have a good time and unwind.”

“With your pain in the ass? Good luck with that, Chief!”

“Thanks, Benny.”

Castiel forces his gaze from literally _everyone else’s_ because this is the stuff of nightmares. “ _What?”_

“Go on,” Dean encourages for everyone to hear, like he’s known Castiel for years, “tell them about it.”

Feeling like a caterpillar’s eating and weaving its way through the thin layers guarding his worn-down heart and slithering along his lungs, Castiel shudders and laughs out of sheer humiliation. “I… uh… yeah, it’s true. I… um, it’s… um… quite the controversial field, granted we’re treating the, uh, minds of our future, but we’ve, um, we… obviously are looking into cost-effective and less aggressive treatment plans. It’s just as rewarding as it is difficult. But we’re dedicated to the kids, even if we’re sometimes limited in government funding. After all, you know… they’re our only hope at sticking it to these self-righteous insurance moguls.”

That gets a few hollers. Cas doesn’t look less like a teenage boy meeting his girlfriend’s parents, but he basks in what little response he receives: “Y-yeah. Yeah! And what about those hospital bills? Ten grand just to lie in bed? I’d have brought my own when I had appendicitis if I’d known that!”

The crowd’s getting into it now. Cas is grinning. His shoulders loosen a bit. He sits up a little straighter.

“The beds aren’t even comfortable either! Whose idea was it to lay brick instead of springs? It’s like they’re setting me up to perform my own interpretation of Humpty Dumpty! And then when I have a great fall, they’ll charge me for that too!”

Everyone laughs along and hollers even louder.

“And another thing—!”

Dean grabs his shoulder and yanks him back to the present.

Cas blinks, slowly coming back to himself. “What… just happened?”

“You tell me, Nathan Ford,” Dean chuckles.

“No, I _mean—”_

“You said you had to give a speech.” Dean shrugs. “I’m just giving you some practice.”

“You asshole! Where did you even pull that from?”

“My brother is the Chief of Child and Adolescent Psychiatry at Lawrence Hope Hospital.”

“Right. Naturally.” Cas scoffs and shifts his focus back to his bourbon. He runs his finger along the rim of the glass and holds it steady with the other. After a minute, he turns to Dean with a small, begrudging thank you.

Dean raises his own glass, as if toasting him, before replying, “Don’t thank me until you’ve taken up karaoke.”

“ ** _No.”_**

~.~

They end up staying a few more hours that only costs them a complete lapse in judgment and the cash in their respective wallets. Castiel does end up at the mic, and he and Dean sing “Islands in the Stream”—earning a standing ovation that nearly turns into a reverse fetal ovation from Bobby Singer.

Sometime between Castiel heading to the restroom like John Wayne walking over a tetter totter, and Dean slurping his spilt whiskey from the counter-top (before Ellen smacks him upside the head and shoves a wet rag in his hands), Dean steals Cas’s phone. He snaps a few concerning pictures, types every blasphemous word he can think of into Cas’s Facebook update, and hashtags everything #FritaBang.

They even hog the pool table around two am, and Castiel learns Dean’s an expert hustler.

Instead of money, however, since they’re both newly broke, they trade their losses for clothes.

Until Ellen calls it off after Cas’s slacks are draped over the railing.

At quarter to three, she closes the bar. Dean orders a Lyft for himself. Luckily, it’s easy enough to click on the address that reads “Home” and Steve in a White Subaru is on his way.

Castiel sobers a little noticing the time, but his fingers clumsily find repeat the same actions on his phone.

When it’s time for them to leave in their separate rides, they have a hard time parting—mostly because they can’t stand on their own without the other. Their drivers have to help them in.

They trade numbers in haste, but they’ll soon find it won’t be necessary.

~.~

It’s not until the following afternoon, when Castiel wakes to the small shrill of deflated air, that he gets it.

This is not his bed, and this is not his studio.

 

Dean’s come to the same sobering realization, having been stirred awake by the silent kneading of an otherwise very vocal black cat.

And even though he swears off drinking that night, it doesn’t stop him from ending up in Cas’s bed again.


End file.
